


Mission Revealing

by eurydike



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-04 23:57:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eurydike/pseuds/eurydike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q doesn't quite know what to make of the incident. Bond later decides that it had been his last resort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mission Revealing

**Author's Note:**

> A little indulgence of mine that begged to be written, for what reason whatsoever. Please keep away if mentions of fat admiration and force-feeding are not your thing. It's all pretty innocent and mild, but I still think a warning is appropriate in case this kink is not yours at all.
> 
> Dedicated to the great [*BRAVINTO](http://bravinto.deviantart.com/).

"Medical will be here in five", announces Dylan from the retrieval team and Q desperately tries to enter the hovel for the nth time. He doesn't usually leave his branch in the headquarter to join retrieval missions, but this particular one is different. 

In the beginning, the mission Bond had been sent on was nothing but unexceptional. Mount the train in Folkestone, cross the Channel, meet the contact in Calais, drive to Caen, exchange the data, feel free to enjoy the beauty of Basse-Normandie and Bretagne if there's time and take the train back the next day. Clear and simple. But Bond never came back. 

The contact was brought in for questioning, but couldn't provide any further information than what MI6 already knew. Bond had apparently rented a car in Caen after the mission had been concluded, had driven to Quimper, had had dinner there - and disappeared without a trace. Much to the chagrin of Q. 

In his position as quartermaster of MI6 he was supposed to always keep an eye on his agents when they were on a mission (and sometimes even when they were enjoying their well deserved time off), he just couldn't lose track. It was an unforgivable incident to say the least. And it hurt his professional as well as his personal pride that without the help of ANSI they wouldn't have found Bond's location for even longer. And what then would have become of the agent Q doesn't even want to think about. It's bad enough to see Bond now that he has at last been allowed to enter the scene of the crime. 

A small, dark room with onewindow on the wall facing him, a muddy, damp concrete floor, a nasty chill, the pervasive stench of fear and Bond lying on the floor, curled up, shivering and moaning. From what Q can make out he is topless, wrapped in a thin, threadbare blanket, and bleeding from a few gashes on his shoulders and back.

Q approaches reluctantly and crouches down next to the injured agent. 'He's all yours now', Dylan had said, squinching up his face.

"007?", says Q quietly, pausing in anticipation of a reaction. "This is Q. You're safe now, we're getting you to the hospital shortly."

Bond stirs, moaning again, shifts and turns onto his back so painfully slow Q is suddenly afraid the prone agent might be suffering internal injuries or bleeding. When he dares a closer look, the quartermaster's eyes widen. Bond's stomach is blotched with bruises and it is actually bloated. Not much, but clearly visible to Q's keen eyes. Never during all the time working for MI6 and with Bond has Q ever seen the other man's body in a shape other than excellent. Seeing a layer of fat on Bond's usually well-toned stomach is deeply unsettling. 

Q gulps audibly, trying to come up with anything suitable to say. Outside the room people are busy giving orders, collecting data and packing up evidence, but to Q it feels as if Bond and he were confined in a bubble that thankfully keeps out all disruption.

When Q focuses on Bond's face, he finds the agent's blue eyes staring back at him almost pleadingly. Talk to me, Q wills Bond, tell me what you need, tell me what you'd like me to do. And sure enough, the agent's chapped lips open and he mutters, "...please... help... so full...", before resolutely clutching Q's narrow wrist and guiding the quartermaster's hand over to lie on his bloated stomach. Eyes wide with surprise, Q catches the message and gingerly lets his long fingers ghost over the soft flesh. With every shuddering breath Bond takes, his belly rises a little, gurgling ominously from the inside.

At that, Q's clever mind finally manages to put two and two together. "Those bastards force-fed you", he states matter-of-factly, staring hard at the agent who merely gives a weak nod, jaw stiff. Q decides that there most be more to it than meets the eye, but now is not the time to elaborate. Bond needs treatment and the local medical team will have to run a screening for more details. All Q can do while they wait is to provide some sort of solace. He lets a moment pass, then works up the courage to properly bend over the agent and press both his hands onto the latter's stomach. A painful groan escapes Bond's lips, the agent's body grows tense for an instant, as if Q had crossed a line and entered an area Bond is not usually willing to provide access to. 

It's this realization that makes Q carry on what he started. With some more force, but not too powerful yet, his skillful fingers start running tiny circles over Bond's still protruding stomach. Given that Bond is not a man who would tolerate this kind of treatment if he were his usual self, Q allows the other man a few seconds to let himself surrender to the relief Q's hands might eventually provide. 

As soon as Bond seems more relaxed (at least as relaxed as the situation allows), Q starts kneading the soft flesh beneath his hands for real. Every time he touches a particularly vulnerable spot or a rather insistent knot, the agent grits his teeth and clenches his fists. Beads of sweat emerge on the frail man's forehead and Q realizes with a start that his insides burn more intense with every passing moment and his own breathing quickens considerably. Unfortunately not only due to the effort that goes with the massage, but due to something else entirely. Q tries to pull himself together, but when his eyes catch a glimpse of the lower part of Bond's body, he cannot but give in. This can't be happening, is what crosses his bewildered mind when he sees the evident bulge in the agent's trousers. A certain warmth crawls up to Q's cheeks and down to his groin. He has the odd feeling he should be disgusted with himself, but this feels too perfect, too right, and since Bond doesn't object...

"Don't stop."

The agent's raspy voice cuts in on his musing and he finally dares to turn his full attention back to the man still sprawled out on the dirty floor. 

"Please. More", Bond urges him once again. There's a desperate longing in those beautiful eyes that Q cannot resist. He swallows and bravely digs his fingers into the virginal layer of delicious fat. It's beyond recognition for anyone who is not familiar with the usually well-toned condition of Bond's stomach, but a true revelation to Q who doesn't know what to make of this retrieval mission's progress. Whatever it means, whatever happens, it's probably wise to enjoy it while it lasts and before the rest of the world rushes back in.

With this conclusion he flexes his hands and presses, hard, eliciting a chocked sound from Bond, who probably has to force himself not to cry in surprise. Or even out of lust, as Q likes to believe, while he continues kneading the delicate pad of fat at his disposal. Bond's and his own breathing and moaning ring out at almost the same desperate pace, both men lost in their wondrous realm of craving, desire and lust.

Q believes it's Bond who reaches his climax first, but then he can't be so sure, because the siren of the ambulance makes the bubble collapse.

Breathing hard, the agent and the quartermaster contemplate one another, both hoping that their little indulgence went unnoticed by the rest of the retrieval team. Q digs into the pocket of his dark jeans, extracts a crumpled pack of handkerchiefs and generously hands one over to Bond who takes it with a grateful smile, eyes bright and hopeful, complexion less pallid.

Q doesn't quite know what to make of the incident. Bond later decides that it had been his last resort.


End file.
